But I couldn’t do it.
Cutting down that tree felt like losing Dean all over again.
So I kept caring for it.
Then, during the third spring, something changed.
One morning, I stepped outside with my coffee and stopped.
The tree was covered in tiny white blossoms.
I stood there staring at it.
For the first time in years, I felt that familiar warmth in my chest.
“Dean,” I whispered, smiling through my tears.
By the end of that summer, twelve beautiful apples hung from its branches.
Only twelve.
But to me, they were priceless.
I carefully picked them and placed them on the kitchen table.
I remember touching one and laughing softly.
“You were right,” I said.
The tree had surprised me.
And it was only getting started.
